Some faces belong more to memory than to the world.

It’s a bit of an obsession, though I try not to talk about him too much. Still, his name surfaces from time to time. And then the teenage guy asks me if I know who River Phoenix was.

He asks it casually, like it’s just another name drifting out of the past. Of course I know. But I hesitate before answering, as though admitting it might reveal too much.

Who would have imagined we’d spend the entire night talking about River Phoenix? About how beauty becomes fixed in time. About the strange intimacy we form with the dead.

Every so often he tilts his head in a way that reminds me of him. Not exactly. But enough. For a moment I imagine he might be the reincarnation of River Phoenix. The thought is absurd, of course.

What he loves is not the person. Only the image. And the image never grows older.